


Repatriation

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All Harry's are appreciated here, Brash Harry, Currently pre-slash, Dark Magic Rituals (Harry Potter), Harry and magic sitting in a tree, Intelligent Harry, M/M, Slow Burn, Sly Harry, Slytherin Harry Potter, because he's eleven, k-i-s-s-ing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: "Harry’s been planning to escape the Dursley’s since he was six years old.Entering the wizarding world—discovering that he has money, the only thing aside from his age that’s been holding Harry back—gives him opportunity."-Excerpt from Chapter One: How to escape your abusive relatives when you become a witch-boy with lotsa dough
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 100
Kudos: 642





	1. How to escape your abusive relatives when you become a witch-boy with lotsa dough

Harry’s been planning to escape the Dursley’s since he was six years old. He realized that they treated him poorly before that, but to him it was normal. It was only when Aunt Petunia smacked him across the head with a frying pan that Harry decided he could not stay if he wanted to live.

Entering the wizarding world—discovering that he has _money_ , the only thing aside from his age that’s been holding Harry back—gives him opportunity. 

So when Hagrid goes to tuck Harry’s Gringotts key back into his pocket, Harry politely requests to keep it. 

After a moment of surprised quiet, Hagrid laughs at himself. “‘Course, Harry, it’s yers.”

“Thanks.” Harry’s smile sits awkwardly on his face, the expression foreign, but Hagrid doesn’t seem to think it odd for he beams back. 

Having discovered his fame the previous night a bit of Harry’s shock has passed, though his anger at the Dursleys for keeping it all a secret won’t soon be fading. Which is why, over lunch, he can’t help but wonder… if he was considered a hero, considered _important_ (and wasn’t that a foreign thought?), why was he left with the Dursleys in the first place? They were his family, sure enough, but shouldn’t wizards be raised by others with magic? People that wouldn’t scream and punish them when their powers acted out? People that could _understand?_

Harry tested the waters by asking, as casually as he could, why he hadn’t been raised in the wizarding world. Hagrid had yet to snap at him for his curiosity, just changed the topic once or twice, and the trend seems to hold. Being allowed to ask questions delights Harry in its newness.

“Awful Muggles, your relatives,” Hagrid frowned. “But Professor Dumbledore put yeh with them fer yer protection. I dropped yeh off myself! There’s no safer place yeh can be, Harry—’cept Hogwarts, o’course.”

After that, it seems wise not to press. 

They still have shops to visit after lunch. Everything is at once fascinating and overwhelming. Everything is _magical._

One of the special features of a trunk jumps out at Harry. “Two bedrooms?” he asks. The other trunks said things like ‘four compartments’ or ‘password-protection’, but then the others didn’t cost two hundred and six galleons. 

The salesman nodded, grinning. Harry had noticed him eyeing the way his arm strained under the weight of a gold-stuffed bag. He didn’t suspect many children were given this much attention, but as long as the man didn’t try to rob him Harry didn’t have any problem listening to him go on about the enchantments on each trunk. It was fascinating, actually, from simple anti-theft charms to intricate spellwork that automatically organized books dropped in by Title, Author, or Most Read. 

“Yes, my trunks are often used by young travelers. Just have to find a safe place to stow it and you can stay the night anywhere in the world.”

Harry blinks. He hasn’t heard something so wonderful in _years_. “Is there plumbing?” 

“The toilet automatically vanishes itself once you stand up, but you’ve got to use a water charm to fill the sink or tub and banish it after. Still, you’ll find it a good deal better than camping in the wild!”

Harry doesn’t know anything about magic, but conjuring water is apparently simple enough that the salesman seems to think an eleven year old can manage, so he nods thoughtfully and asks for its other features.

After a four-minute sales pitch and look around a demo-trunk, Harry is sold. 

Two taps of his new holly wand are all it takes to shrink it, and when Hagrid assumes it was the salesman’s doing, Harry doesn’t correct him. No use in pointing out that a good amount of his gold had gone into buying a miniature flat. 

When Hagrid returns him to 4 Privet Drive Harry remains outside, waving goodbye until he vanishes. 

Rather than enter the house he heads around back, slipping into the garden. People on Privet Drive are horrid gossips that can often be found peering through their windows down the street, so Harry is careful to look as though he’s just starting his routine chores. Even if the Dursley’s haven’t made it back, there is nothing unusual to be found about their nephew in the back yard with a trowel. The garden is Harry’s sanctuary, though with the summer sun beating down on him it often feels more like hell. He carefully positions himself to block the sight of anybody who may be looking and digs up the space behind a well-tended rose bush. 

A small pile of coins and cash wait for him, protected by a neatly cut piece of the plastic tarp he used to protect the flowers during a storm. He’s easily filched enough over the years to cover the bus fare back to London. He was the one to clean between couch cushions, and Dudley’s allowance was always poorly counted if the boy even bothered. 

He tucks the cash into his trainer carefully, coins going into the pocket without a hole, and re-buries the evidence. Armed with what he’d once thought to be his life savings, he makes the long trek back to the bus station.

It’s approaching midnight by the time Harry finally reaches the Leaky Cauldron. The barkeep is occupied with pouring drinks and fortunately doesn’t notice him creep past. Harry doesn’t think it wise to rent a room from a man on such friendly terms with Hagrid. 

Luckily, he had an idea on the bus from Surrey. 

It takes Harry two tries to get the pattern right on the brick wall leading to Diagon Alley, but once he does he doesn’t linger. Keeping his holly wand gripped tight in his hand though he doesn’t know how to do anything with it, he walks through the dark streets quickly. Unlike the Leaky Cauldron there is barely anybody around, and he half-runs to Gringotts in a sudden rush of fright. He can’t imagine the trouble he’ll be in if he’s caught, so he can’t be caught. 

Harry stops outside the bank to take in panting breaths, but gets himself under control quickly enough and tucks his wand away. He’s used to running from Dudley, so it only takes a moment for him to stand straight again and do his best imitation of proper.

Gringotts appears to still be open. Harry isn’t sure what he would do if it wasn’t. He walks through the doors, eyes tracing over the warning briefly, before looking around for a teller. There are only two, the reception hall of the bank otherwise abandoned. It’s a startling difference, for earlier that day—or the day previous, now—there had been hundreds of goblins.

His footsteps echoed through the room, but neither teller looked up.

“Pardon me?” he says softly, to the one not weighing gemstone and gold. When the goblin looks up from his paper Harry is surprised to recognize that he is the same one from earlier in the day, who had escorted him and Hagrid to the vaults. “Griphook?”

“Potter,” the goblin acknowledges, looking a bit surprised.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says quickly, which only makes Griphook’s face crease more. “I was just wondering… if I could be taken to my vault, is there a limit for how long I can stay?”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed a bit as he tilted his head to meet Harry’s gaze. “There is not.”

Immediately, Harry brightened. It was possible, after all! “Brilliant,” he whispered. “Do you have time—can you take me now?” 

“A moment, sir,” Griphook said shortly, and Harry’s stomach sank. “I have not explained the limitations. There will be no way for you to exit Gringotts without a goblin to escort you, and I will not sit outside all evening waiting for you. You would have to set a time to be collected from your vault,” sharp teeth were bared, “and then trust that we would do so.”

Harry took the implied threat in stride. He had been forgotten in his cupboard plenty of times. “There would be no extra fee?”

“There is no fee for bringing somebody to and from their vault,” Griphook sneered. Obviously this was something Harry should have known. Earlier there hadn’t been, of course, but Harry had thought, given the oddity of his request… 

“All right,” he agreed quickly. “So if I were to go to my vault every evening and request to be picked up at nine each morning, that would be allowed?”

Griphook raised a brow at him. “You wish to reside in your Gringotts vault?” he asked, bemused.

Harry’s lips tightened. “Yes sir. I purchased a trunk that the salesman said travelers use as their home, but I need somewhere safe to put it, and I was told there is nowhere safer.”

Except for Hogwarts, but seeing as the Headmaster had been the one to place Harry with the Dursley’s he doubted he would feel very safe there.

The goblin nodded, face once again neutral. “You were told right. However, we will not leave an unescorted _wizard_ inside of Gringotts without taking precautions. You won’t be able to leave your vault until nine in the morning when a Goblin unlocks it to collect you; there is no emergency communications that we will provide you. You will effectively be trapped and at the goblin nations mercy.”

Again, Harry agreed to the terms. He was used to being locked away, and for far longer periods. Being at another's mercy wasn’t so unfamiliar, either.

Griphook appeared dubious even as he hopped over the counter, jumping off the (rather high) desk to land neatly beside Harry. “You are prepared to enter your vault now and not exit until 9 tomorrow morning?”

It was his third repetition of the point. Harry tried not to let his annoyance show when he said again _,_ “Yes sir.”

“Sir, he says,” Griphook sneered. “Follow me.”

The door to his vault clicks open precisely at nine in the morning. Harry knows this because after six hours of uninterrupted sleep on the floor of his new trunk, he had spent the next two and a half hours wondering if he had been too rash and was going to rot away for somehow offending the goblins. Then he realized he wasn’t sure of when to get _out_ of his trunk, having no way to measure time. For all he knew it was already the afternoon, and he had slept through the goblins coming to fetch him.

In his panic Harry noticed that the air was much thinner than he was used to, and when he breathed his lungs were filled with a strange, almost static sort of energy, and _why had he willingly forfeited his freedom to goblins he knew nothing about?_

Of course, he knew exactly why. Anything was better than the Dursley’s.

It took Harry a bit to calm himself, and once he did he was parched. He pulled out the collection of books he had gotten from _Flourish and Blotts_ and paged through _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_ , hoping to find the incantation for drinkable water the salesman had mentioned. He didn’t, but he found _Tempus_ , which allowed the caster to know the current time. One simply had to move their wand in a clockwise motion and say the spell.

Harry drew his wand, a bit nervous but with nothing to lose. Hagrid had said that he was a wizard, and he had managed to do strange things over the years, so it should work. He was magic, and what was more magic than sitting at the bottom of an average-sized trunk?

 _“Tempus,”_ Harry said, following the directions. Nothing happened. Perhaps the magic knew that he didn’t really think he could perform it? Well, if that was the case Harry would just pretend. He was very good at pretending things; the cupboard had given him plenty of time to practice.

“ _Tempus_ ,” he said more forcefully. Faintly glowing blue characters appeared in front of him:

_08:03_

_August 1st, 1991_

Beyond relieved, Harry lowered his wand. A slow, genuine smile crept over his face as the time and date dissipated. That was _real._ He had managed to cast an actual spell. He _was_ a wizard.

Harry spent the next half hour flipping through the spellbook and attempting charms. Many took several attempts and a thorough studying of the phonetic pronunciations written in parenthesis, but in the end he managed to create light, levitate a book, and mend the hole in his pocket. After another time-telling spell revealed that it was half to nine, Harry began unpacking the robes he had gotten the previous day. He probably shouldn’t run around in Dudley’s hand me downs, especially after the pointed-faced boy from yesterday had made it clear Muggles were looked down on. Not that Hagrid seemed to disagree, of course, but he hadn’t put such fine of a point on it. 

The vault was opened at precisely nine in the morning, as promised. Harry rose from his position—sitting criss-cross in front of the door—and nodded to the goblin respectfully. It wasn’t Griphook, this time.

“Good morning,” he greeted. 

The goblin looked at him oddly, but said, “Good morn, sir.”

The ride up to Gringotts was quick, and the goblin, who hadn’t introduced himself, led Harry to the reception hall. It was lively again, this morning, and Harry went unnoticed through the bustle as he exited.

His first order of business was food, which he found at a small café just off of the alley. He drank his fill of water eagerly, and it automatically re-filled itself once he was done. Harry blinked at the phenomenon, but decided against asking the woman at the counter, who had a short but constant line of people. Instead he picked at the pastry and turned the glass this way and that, trying to see if there was anything odd about it. But no, it was an ordinary glass.

Nobody paid him any mind, though a couple of patrons were discussing how unlucky they were to have not been in Diagon Alley yesterday. Further eavesdropping made it clear that they were upset because Harry Potter had been there, and they had missed him. Harry left in short order after that. 

It appeared searching for a water making spell would have to wait. Walking around in unmarked school robes was conspicuous, though not as much as walking around in Muggle clothes that fell off of him would have been. Beyond being tired of a life trapped in Dudley’s hand me downs, new clothes would no longer be an indulgence for Harry, but a protective measure. 

Blending in has always been one of Harry’s greatest weapons, and he needed to utilize it now. Though the ladies in the surrounding neighborhoods and at the Dursleys church thought Harry a hooligan, he had little trouble fading into the background at school. Petunia had insisted that he be placed in a different class than Dudley, which helped considerably. He only had to spend recesses and lunch running from his cousin; otherwise he was free to melt into the background, mentioned only by the merit of his oversized clothing and deferential attitude.

With that in mind, he goes looking for clothing shops beyond _Madam Malkin’s_. She had been plenty kind, but Harry was rightfully avoiding anybody that might recognize him. 

Luckily there was a shop called _Twilfitt and Tattings_. The seamstress kept a polite distance, letting a tape measurer do all the work, and once she had his sizing she modified an off the rack outfit for him to wear. The rest of his wardrobe would be ready by one o’clock. It cost nearly twenty galleons, but Harry wasn’t overly concerned considering the robes would grow with him for up to three years. Besides that he hadn’t gotten half the charms offered, which defrayed the costs considerably. The only downside was that she only sold robes, not pants or shirts, so Harry would be left wearing Dudley’s clothing beneath his robes. A shopping trip in central London might be in order, though Harry suspected it would be much odder for a young, unaccompanied boy to be _there_ than in Diagon Alley.

Harry eyed _Obscurus Books_ thoughtfully, but ended up passing it up for the simply named _Second-Hand Bookshop_. In Surrey he had found the most interesting things were often lost, and he wasn’t looking to start some posh collection. He just wanted to learn about the wizarding world.

The shopkeep was middle aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp amber eyes. “Anything in particular you’re looking for, lad?”

“No sir,” Harry returned softly, grabbing a basket. Asking adults for help never went well. Surely he could find a water spell himself. Not ten minutes later he regretted his answer. He had greatly underestimated the size of the bookshop. It appeared as big as _Ollivander’s_ from the front, but in reality he had already raked through over twenty shelves of books, and there were still many more.

Not all of the books were in the best state, but Harry’s interest lied in information, not pretty covers. Harry picked up books on traditions, recent history, household charms, permanent transfigurations—anything that stood out as interesting. Some of the magic might be too advanced for him, but just that morning he had thought _all_ magic too advanced for him, and still managed four spells. 

By the time he reached the counter his basket was completely full and light as a feather, an enchantment he most definitely would have appreciated all the times he trailed after his aunt in the grocery store, arms aching as she tossed things into the basket.

“I do actually have a question, sir,” he said, embarrassed. Looking at the pile of books, the shopkeeper looked far from irritated; perhaps the money he was spending made up for wasting the man's time. “I need to learn the water-making spell. Can you please recommend a book?”

“Sure lad,” the man agreed easily. “A bit advanced, but no more than some of these… _Accio_ _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six._ ”

A book flew to the register and was caught easily by the man. Harry blinked, impressed. He had just—just _summoned_ that from somewhere else in the room. It was amazing.

Still, Grade _Six?_ Harry had been learning from Grade One this morning… perhaps the spell was out of his league, after all. But there was no reason not to try.

“Thank you,” he said by rote. 

The shopkeep rang him up efficiently, though he stopped at one book and looked at Harry carefully. “You don’t want to be caught with this one, lad. Blood magic isn’t permitted by the Ministry. If anyone saw you carrying it, this would raise some questions.”

“Oh,” Harry said softly, surprised. He recognized the cover easily. It was one of the few books he had skimmed the Table of Contents of, and one he was incredibly interested in. It contained things like glamors and rituals that strengthened your senses. Harry had half-thought that he might be able to fix his eyesight before school. “Sorry, I didn’t know. It didn’t seem dangerous.” 

“It’s blood magic,” the man returned, not unkindly. “It can be _very_ dangerous. Still, no reason for the government to have outlawed it. It’s dead useful if you’re careful and have some common sense. These particular rituals won’t do you any harm if done correctly—I wouldn’t have it out in my shop, otherwise—but _all_ Blood Magic was made illegal in the Wizegnot’s last winter session. This shouldn’t even be on the shelf anymore.”

The shopkeep was watching him very closely, Harry thought. “I can’t buy it, then,” he said, not having to feign sadness. Something in the man’s eyes were rather sly. It made Harry wonder. And, well, he _was_ the only other one in the shop, so no reason not to see… 

“I understand, sir. This book—” he gently tapped one the man had yet to ring up, “—is marked at 12 sickles, but I think it was meant to be a galleon and 15 sickles.”

And then, with a complete lack of subtlety, he grabbed the book the man had just denied him and set it calmly into the bag with the others. The shopkeep smirked, clearly catching the motion, even as he studied the book that Harry had gestured to. 

“It’s two galleons, actually,” he said, rather than call Harry out on anything. And, well, Harry knew a deal when he heard one.

“My mistake,” he smiled. The man matched it with crooked teeth and placed the two-galleon book on top of the forbidden tome without so much as glancing down. More books followed.

“Alright, that’ll be 10 galleons, 6 sickles and 21 knuts.” Harry handed off eleven golden coins and received his change in short order. “Thank you for your business. Enjoy your day, lad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just re-read a portion of Book One, and why are goblins always so rude in this fandoms stories again? They were perfectly polite - they called Hagrid 'sir,' and while Griphook was a bit passive aggressive by refusing to slow the cart (if that's even possible), they're an oppressed race that deserve to be bitter. So what else, exactly, do we expect?
> 
> Honestly it's been so long since I've read the actual books I was reading about the goblins being completely non-combative like... _huh?_ They bow to Hagrid and Harry on their way in. _Since when?_
> 
> I need to go back to source materials, it seems!
> 
> If you have a moment, please drop a comment on your way out. :)


	2. Ritualistic magic is obviously what you should learn first

The book on Blood Magic (titleless though it was) fascinated Harry. Maybe all the more for knowing that it was forbidden, though he could hardly see why. As the shopkeeper at _Second-Hand Bookshop_ had said, he could harm only himself if the rituals weren’t done correctly. 

Mind you Harry didn’t enjoy being hurt, so it would be a matter of weighing risk versus reward, like he used to at the Dursleys. He _could_ take the ends of the loaf of bread and risk Aunt Petunia locking him in his cupboard for being an ungrateful thief, or he could filch something that might upset his stomach from the bin. 

A ritual that would grant him clear eyesight for one year seemed worth the risk. 

Trying to figure out the details of the ritual left Harry intensely grateful to have picked up a magical dictionary. Unfamiliar terms like ‘transmutation’, ‘asperge’, and ‘sunwise’ were all explained factually, as were words he heard around Diagon Alley, like ‘mudblood’ and ‘quidditch’. It also contained muggle words that he hadn’t had the chance to learn before. He just had to place his wand on the Index and say a word or term, and the dictionary would flip to the entry, or in some cases the closest thing that it had. Flipping the muggle way worked just as well, and was often necessary when he didn’t know how to pronounce words he had only seen in text. Needless to say, the dictionary proved invaluable. 

Even with the help of it, along with three books on Ancient Runes needed for cross-referencing, it took Harry days to get through the book. As much as he wanted to focus exclusively on the Sight Ritual, he made sure there were no hidden warnings in the pages that might make the consequences outweigh the benefit. After all, the magic _was_ illegal, and things didn’t become illegal for no reason. 

After discovering no such warnings, Harry spent an additional week making sure that he knew what each of the runes for his ritual meant. He would have to draw them perfectly, as well as sacrifice some blood and a ‘spark’ of magic.

A spark, he discovered, was how much magic it typically took to perform a complicated transmutation. Which was fitting, because what Harry wanted was on par with ocular surgery, albeit it was only semi-permanent. While it _could_ strain the magical core of anybody under the age of twelve, Harry thought it worth the risk. Once everything was finalized he would have to collect meals with stasis charms from Diagon Alley and warn the goblins that he would have a day in. Wasting their time was the last thing he wanted to do. 

Other than research for the ritual, Harry wandered around Diagon every day. He ate at different places, not wanting there to be questions if he was seen at one restaurant too often, though he often lost track of time and skipped lunch altogether. He put it down to a combination of not being hungry and his body not expecting to be fed. He’d been an entire week before without more than a piece of burnt toast, so he didn’t suppose skipping one meal a day would truly harm him.

There were quiet spots he found, not in Diagon exactly but in streets directly off of it. Harry’s favorite place to sit and read was under a willow tree outside of _Naturista_ , a Herbology shop. The yard was around thirty meters, and seemed more like a small park than anything, though without any muggle playground equipment. Children often ran up to ooh and aah over the many flowers and moving plants, though most were steered away from the grand willow tree by older siblings or strangely wary adults, which is what made Harry like it so much. He could sit unnoticed and watch families as they bickered, younger children as they played, and the occasional impromptu picnic. He was glad for the fresh air, but the sweet, tranquil atmosphere broken up by the occasional peel of laughter or childish scream was what made it into something of a haven for him. 

He did end up going to muggle London, although it wasn’t quite planned. A younger girl who had dared to approach the willow tree ran off with a squeak, only to be heard ‘whispering’ to her older brother that he _must_ be Harry Potter, because she’d seen his scar. Harry flattened his bangs with a scowl and left quickly, but the two indiscreetly stalked him through Diagon, bickering over whether he was _really_ Harry Potter all the while. Before they drew a crowd Harry decided to duck through the (thankfully busy) Leaky Cauldron. 

Unfortunately this left him on Charing Cross Road, wearing the equivalent of a dress. After stepping into a horrifically smelling alley and folding his robes to carry under his arm, Harry double-checked that he _had_ in fact stuffed some pounds into his trainer before setting out to find muggle clothing. His goal was to stay as close to the Leaky Cauldron as possible, and either run or lie very well if a policeman approached him. 

In the end he returned to Diagon with a bag of plain tee-shirts, some button ups to wear his House tie with, several pairs of trousers that actually fit, and a pair of trainers that weren’t on the verge of falling apart. The saleswoman had needed very little reassurance to believe his mother worked just across the street and had let him run over for clothes due to a recent growth spurt. Harry was used to telling white lies like this to the people that hadn’t automatically recognized him in Little Whinging. Grown ups did not want to believe children capable of lying to their faces—lying _well,_ at least—or consider that some kids would dare run around without parental supervision. These beliefs were easy to play off of, and his politeness made them coo about precociousness rather than wonder at whether his story was odd. 

Spending near all the money he had saved from his time with the Dursley’s made Harry anxious to the level of an upset stomach, so the following day he requested Snarlok convert seven galleons to pounds. He kept up the habit of tucking it into his shoe in the morning; he never knew when he might need it. 

Another side-effect of being recognized was Harry’s increased paranoia. No matter how hard he tried he could not get a sticking charm to work for adhering his bangs to his forehead, despite it managing flawlessly on keeping his books and galleons firmly in their place. It was the same with _Colovaria_ , the colour changing charm he found in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_. While he could manage to switch the color of his sheets, his book covers, and even one of the walls of the vault (though that had reverted in under a minute), it did nothing to his hair. 

The next disguise Harry considered was hats, but they would only call more attention to him, both because it was summer and because the only one he had seen thus far had a dead _vulture_ of all things mounted to it. This found Harry purchasing a book of cosmetic charms, which got him a _very_ amused look from the shopkeep even though he'd set it between more Ancient Rune texts. 

His scar, no matter how long Harry tried for, refused to be covered by any concealment charm. In fact, it seemed to repel all magic, and maybe even made magic not work on his hair, which didn’t make sense at all. So not only was he stuck with a scar—a scar he had once admired for being the only interesting thing about him, Harry thought sourly—from the night his parents were murdered, but he couldn’t even cover it. Weren’t scars meant to _fade_?

Then again, being hit with a killing curse was meant to kill you. A voice in his head that sounded rather like his Aunt snapped that he really didn’t have much to complain about, so _stop being so ungrateful!_ There had been many problems he couldn’t solve in his life. He would just have to find a way around this one.

The answer came when he was picking up some things for the Eyesight Ritual at the Apothecary. Below the register was a list of potions available for purchase, including the Manegro Potion for rapid hair growth. Needless to say, Harry bought it eagerly, along with some pigs blood, candles, and a dagger. The owner didn’t even blink, so Harry figured purchasing those items together wasn’t necessarily suspicious, which was a relief.

That night he took the potion, gagging a bit at the taste, and watched in awe as his hair grew all the way to his waist. The sudden heaviness was startling, as was the way his perpetually messy hair had settled. Under the weight it was merely wavy, and not shooting out in every direction. Harry didn’t fancy having _that much_ hair, however, and used the dagger to chop it off just under his shoulders. Then he hand combed it until it hung over his scar, partially covering his right eye. 

All said and done, Harry had to train himself _not_ to tuck his hair behind his ear, even when it was falling into his face and getting in the way of his reading. If he wanted to pick up the habit at Hogwarts that would be fine, but for now he was trying to be discreet, for all the good it seemed to be doing.

A few days after the hair debacle found Harry reading his first book about goblins, sealed with a stamp that said “Literature Approved by the British Ministry of Magic circa 1732”. It had him fuming in short order. 

Harry had realized a lot in his time at Gringotts, including the reason the goblins had been giving him such odd, and occasionally irritable, looks. Harry’s behavior made him an outlier, in that few wizards treated goblins with genuine kindness and respect. Sometimes it caused them to be brisk and rude to him, other times wary, but Harry didn’t want to alter his treatment just to put them at ease. He couldn’t imagine treating them so rudely as some of the bank patrons, who often had attitudes that rivaled Dursley levels of disdain. 

_Goblins for the Novice_ actually sounded like something that people like his relatives would have contributed to. It started off by calling goblins a sub-intelligent species, and went on to state that they were greedy, untrustworthy, and constantly scheming to overthrow wizard folk. As far as Harry was concerned, it was a book that showed the very worst of prejudice. He couldn’t believe that it had been published, nevertheless given a stamp of Ministry approval. It was just as sickening as the lies that Aunt Petunia once fed the neighbors about him, only this affected more than one boy; it affected people's perception of an entire _species._

There was a section called, ‘How to Handle Conversation with Goblins,’ which had phrases that were a mix between thinly veiled and obvious insults. One of the seemingly kinder phrases was ‘May my gold be protected by your mercy’, but when Harry thought about it he discovered it to be just as mean spirited as all the others. Some of the phrases implied that Gringotts was not a secure place to store funds, while others indicated that a goblin would dare steal into their customer’s vaults. That phrase implied _both_ while mocking the recipient.

Still, Harry read through the book. The entire, sickening mess of it. He wanted to know just what put that gleam of hostility and doubt into the goblins eyes when they looked at him.

Once he was done Harry used it to learn the fire starter spell on it. The fewer copies that existed in the world, the better. He wondered how many people in the magical world had read the words of Cuthbert P. Smith and blindly believed them. 

The goblins might have been gruff creatures, but it seemed they had good reason. To Harry their occasional tempers were easily withstood, as he’d dealt with far worse attitudes in Little Whinging. Almost without him realizing they had gotten under his skin. He, more than any other witch or wizard, had the opportunity to see them interact with each other. After a while, when he snickered along with an impressive quip or the implication that somebody had pulled one over on a snooty wizard, the goblins seemed to grow less restrained in their interactions with one another in his presence. Down by the carts, away from suspicious eyes, they joked, snapped, and prodded at one another. Through observing the co-workers, friends, and occasional family members interaction Harry discovered what fondness looked like on a goblins face.

Goblins were just _people_. Not humans, no, but complex creatures with their own feelings, morality, and culture. Really, his coming to like them was an inevitability. What they did in the moments that wizarding eyes couldn't find them became Harry's measure of who they actually were. As a rule people didn’t like to show when they were hurt, so naturally those who had been oppressed wouldn’t show off their chains or reveal their weak points. 

The fact was that goblins _could_ access their magic without wands, but that wasn’t why they weren’t allowed them. They were not allowed wands because they were considered _lesser_ , and having such absent-minded prejudice rubbed in their face day in and out only spawned malice. So yes, some goblins—most, even—loathed wizards. It was no true surprise that when Harry’s wand was visible their tongues grew sharper and their eyes darker. 

Perhaps they did not consider him their enemy, but he was certainly no friend. 

Harry looked over the ritual circle with no small amount of pride. He had swept this corner of the vault thoroughly, kept from using magic in the area for a week, and checked the work on his runes four times _just to be sure._ The shopkeeper may have said that none of the blood rituals in the book could badly harm him, but the last thing Harry wanted was to go blind because he misplaced a rune. There was a reason he was only going forward with the ritual on August 27th and not sooner. It would give him long enough to recover as needed for Hogwarts, but didn’t rush his preparations. 

If anything, he was overly prepared. He wasn’t used to the sensation in the least, but it was rather reassuring. 

“I’ve got this,” he whispered to himself. The most important thing about magic seemed to be belief, or perhaps intent. Either way, Harry would be sure to succeed. He had put too much work into his very first ritual to fail.

The voice in the back of his mind that sounded like Aunt Petunia and said he would always be a freak, a failure, a no-good leach, would just have to deal with being proven wrong. 

Harry took a deep, settling breath and grabbed a candle. He stepped carefully over the lines drawn in pigs blood and sat cross-legged at the center of the circle. The candle was placed directly in front of him, and the Potions dagger to his right. Six other candles were outside the array, set an equal distance apart.

“Blessed be Magic,” he chanted the words he had memorized, “Blessed be this day and this life I have been given. Will you give fire, Magic?” 

And, just as he had read they would, the candles all lit at once. Excitement bubbled in Harry’s chest, and he had to hold back a giddy laugh. _Magic_ , and he didn’t even have to use his wand. Was it some incarnation of magic itself, or just his own will manifesting in a way that he expected?

He took another breath to settle himself and continued on without haste, unwilling to get anything wrong despite his eagerness. “I ask today for the Gift of Sight. Not the Sight of seers or prophets, but an acuity of vision I currently lack.”

Harry pictured what he wanted clearly in his mind. Being able to see details from across the room that he could now only make out when under a meter away; being able to see the faces of his future classmates at Hogwarts, rather than having a general impression of their forms; not having to quietly request before lessons if he could please sit up front because he needed a new prescription. 

Keeping these thoughts in mind, he grabbed the dagger and slashed it across his palm. His hesitation was non-existent, and while the pain was biting it was also somehow distant, like background noise. “Please gift me Sight,” he whispered, letting his blood drip into the center candle and releasing a spark of magic as it hissed. 

He hadn’t known how to give ‘just a spark,’ but the ritual seemed to draw out the perfect amount on its own. Harry’s limbs began to shake, his hands moving to the floor to hold his balance. The candles extinguished as one, and then Harry’s eyes began to _burn._

It was worse than when Harry had broken his arm, worse than when Dudley and his gang had caught up to him at recess, worse than Petunia and the frying pan. 

“Oh god, oh god, I’m sorry,” Harry whispered frantically, scrubbing at his face with the hand that wasn’t still bleeding. “I thought I had it right, I’m sorry, _please—_ ”

Harry couldn’t say how long it took, how long he quietly begged as tears flowed down his cheeks, for his eyes to cease their burning. He kept them shut tightly for a moment, terrified of what would happen when he opened them. Terrified that he would no longer be able to _see._

But eventually Harry had to be brave. He could not stay on the ground forever, blind or not. 

Harry cracked his eyes open, just a bit, and the circle of runes swam into clarity around him. Each marking was miraculously clear, and Harry could _see_ , could see just as well as he had with his nose nearly pressed to the ground as he checked his work. 

It had _hurt_ , yes, but it had _worked._

Giddy, disbelieving, Harry glanced across the vault. There was gold—gold—and _there_ , a short shelf of books Harry had never noticed before, even after living in the vault for nearly a month.

He went to stand, to go and _see_ what they were, but a wave of dizziness crashed over him. 

“Stupid,” he chided himself. He had _known_ he would be weak. It’s why he left his wand a short distance away from the ritual circle, along with a roll of bandages. After a moments thought he bowed his head, not as a part of the completed ritual but because it somehow felt right. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “ _I love magic._ ”

There was a soft thrum through the air, something melodious that could have easily come from his imagination or outside the vault, but it brought a soft smile to Harry’s face. It was a truly ethereal sound.

He raised his hand to take in the damage. It didn’t look like he had cut himself too deep, though it was still weeping blood and pulsing in time with his heartbeat. “Right,” he murmured. “Bandages.”

On the morning of the 29th he entered the Gringotts reception hall to find a wizard yelling at a goblin. He was making an enormous scene, on par with Dudley’s childhood tantrums. He spat that she was a filthy half-breed that would never be so lucky as to _lick his shoes clean_ —which, _what?—_ nevertheless touch his gold. The degradation continued relentlessly, long after the point a normal person might stop for breath, and despite the alarming number of gawkers, nobody made any move to stop the man. Even the guards were unusually still, looking a bit grey. 

He must be important, Harry deduced, and just as quickly decided that he did not care. Who the man was or what he could do to Harry didn’t matter in the least. He was as horrendous on the inside as he was sleek and polished on the outside. Harry has seen people like this before. Small-minded people like his Grade 2 teacher who had always punished dark-skinned children for nonsensical things when his only real hatred was their skin color. 

Harry’s teeth ground together. The more he heard, the angrier he became. This man was echoing some of the most vile things _Goblins for the Novice_ had said, and nobody was contradicting him. Did everybody in this bank believe it, too, but were too trapped by their British politeness to voice it? Harry glanced at the still guards, and then he strode forward. 

He paid no mind to the eyes turning to him. For once, Harry did not even notice. 

“The only despicable one here is you,” he cut in coolly.

The man turned, sneer still on his face, and it took him a moment to look down. His eyes widened on Harry, cheeks flushing. How he had remained so pale when eviscerating the goblin with his lies, Harry had no idea. “Pardon you?”

“No,” he returned with surprising strength. “Pardon _you_ , for interrupting everybody’s morning with your nastiness. Just because goblins are not human doesn’t mean that they’re not clever, or are unfeeling.” 

The man’s face grew condescending very quickly. “I’m not sure what blood-traitor has filled your head with nonsense, little boy, but these creatures are as simple as House Elves. No decent wizard would ever defend such _filth_.”

Harry felt himself flushing, not from embarrassment but from rage. He had never felt so angry in his entire life. He took the man before him in quickly; tall and pale, with sharp features and pale blue eyes. He had a stone on his right ring finger, a sign of Lordship if Harry remembered correctly. Judging by the way the guards had restrained themselves, this was not a Lord they could dare piss off, so he was likely someone with enough money or power to make things very difficult on the Goblin Nation. On Harry, too, but he ignored any trepidation he might feel, and raised his left eyebrow instead. 

“I’m not a decent wizard, then,” he said smartly, “and I hope to never change. The day I become Lord Potter, I won’t be making such an annoyance of myself in a public space.”

The man’s eyes widened again, and whispers tore through the bank. 

“Potter, did he say?”

“ _Harry_ Potter?”

“Right age, innit he?”

“Big words from a boy not even wearing his heir ring,” the man drawled, though his eyes were rather alarmed, darting over his features quickly. “Are you _really_ Harry Potter, or just some snot nosed brat pretending? Surely the Light’s savior would not go parading around, touting the rights of Dark vermin.”

Harry would admit to being a bit surprised at the man continuing his very public temper tantrum. Typically even Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon would have backed down by now. Was he not embarrassed, or was speaking this way towards both goblins and children acceptable in the magical world?

Pointedly, Harry tucked his long hair behind his ear, revealing the lightning bolt on his forehead. 

“So you’re going to continue your temper tantrum, then?”

The man drew himself up, and Harry braced himself for a blow, but then blue eyes lifted and glanced about the room. Quickly, the man took a step back from him and settled, though his lips were still pressed tight. “My business is concluded here,” he said shortly, and with a withering glare to the goblin and dismissive glance at Harry, he left. 

Harry turned, catching the disproving eyes of many patrons and every goblin watching the man leave. A few, however, were watching him. The attention was as unnerving as ever, and with his scar bared he felt strangely exposed. He shifted, then turned to the teller. 

“Are you okay?” He asked her softly. The goblin stared at him, then turned and left her station, vanishing behind the desk. Harry wondered if he had somehow offended her by stepping in. If so, he still didn’t regret it. 

Before he could think much of it a door opened and the same goblin gestured to him. “Come, Heir Potter, your vault manager is prepared to speak with you.”

Who was his vault manager? But Harry obliged, walking quickly but purposefully so it did not appear that he was running away. Anything to get him away from the eyes boring into him. 

“That was very foolish,” the goblin told him. Then she bared her teeth in a smile and said, with feeling, “Thank you.”

His returning smile was shaky. All the adrenaline had left him, and he felt rather light-headed, though whether he wasn’t yet fully recovered from the ritual or was just shocked at having been the center of attention was unclear.

“Anytime,” he said honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya ready for some Creature!Champion Harry? He's had enough prejudice in his life, thankyouverymuch!
> 
> Also, rituals. How far down the rabbit hole do you think he'll go? 
> 
> I seriously enjoyed reading the comments on the last chapter. Please keep up the support, I'll certainly need encouragement if I’m going to make it through all seven years!
> 
> Next Up, Hogwarts!


	3. Manners are all well and good but knowledge is indubitably better

_Hogwarts: A History_ was a very large, very dry book, but Harry had read enough to figure out what his train ticket meant by Platform 9 ¾. Unlike the portal to Diagon Alley, you didn’t have to tap the bricks in a certain order to get through. Rather, they were spelled to be intangible, allowing anybody with muggle relatives to be seen off at the train.

Long, large, and crimson, the Hogwarts Express was a thing of beauty. Harry took a moment to admire it with eyes that could see every window—every well-defined arch—every speck of dirt that had settled on its lower half. He’d never seen a train up close before.

“Wicked,” he muttered, pleased, before moving to board. Unlike most of the others there half past ten, he had no trunk to haul along. It was conveniently shrunk in his pocket, though he would make sure to enlarge it once it was on the luggage rack to be transported to whatever House he ended up in. 

He went to the third-to-last compartment on the train in an attempt to escape some of the clamor, and settled quickly after pulling a book from his bag. He expected it would be a long journey, considering they were going to the Highlands. Eight and a half, maybe nine hours, plus the half hour early he’d arrived.

It was past eleven when a soft knock sounded at his compartment's door, and a girl without colors on her robes—another First Year—poked her head in. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” she asked. “Nobody’s joined me and I don’t fancy being alone.” 

Harry nodded. While a part of him was wary to give up his solitude, he’d grown somewhat used to socializing in the past month. He could smile, now, without it feeling unnatural on his face, and exchange pleasantries easily enough. “Go ahead. I’m Harry.”

“Susan Bones,” the girl smiled. After a moment, she said, “Harry _Potter_?” and Harry could only nod awkwardly. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hide for long, but to not even make it through the train ride was a bit depressing.

Still, Bones didn’t make a big deal of it. Rather, she said, “Well met,” and smiled at him.

Well met, well met… the words rang a bell. Something from a book he’d skimmed over more than read, one of the nights he was trying to get his mind off doing the ritual. What was it again? _Courtesy For Mudbloods_ , or something of the like. He had mostly disregarded it once he learned that the title had a slur in it. 

“You too,” he said, after a beat too long. “I mean, well met.” 

Bones looked momentarily startled, but then she smiled. “You didn’t enjoy your etiquette tutoring very much, did you?” she asked, tone a bit too playful to be a taunt. 

Still, Harry frowned. “I didn’t have any, actually,” he said. 

She blinked, brow puckering. “Pardon?”

“I didn’t find out I was a wizard until my birthday,” he revealed reluctantly. As much as he wanted to belong, Harry _didn't_ , and nine hours would be plenty of time to discover just how little he knew. Dark eyebrows rose, and Bones' nose scrunched up a bit.

“ _Really?_ Merlin, but that was barely over a month ago!” How _did_ she know that? Was his birthday published? “I can’t imagine! My Aunt Amelia is in charge of the Magical Law Enforcement Department, so even though I’m a half-blood like you I’ve had to go to lots of galas with her whenever Father was out of the country. That amounts to _a lot_ of proper etiquette, since there are so many people you can offend there. When I bothered to think about you, I figured you must have just as much learning about forks and tea and titles as I did.”

Well, _that_ was a lot to take in. “You thought about me?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

Bones blushed, just a bit. “Well, I think it's normal. You’re my age, but you're famous. Honestly, you’re a really common topic between us kids at those parties. We’ve all looked forward to meeting you since we were little.”

It was incredibly odd to think about. While Harry was weeding the garden, or locked in his cupboard, or running from Dudley, there had been children in the world thinking about him. When he was dreaming of escape they were imagining what type of person he could be, and what dreadful things he must be enduring, as if _learning_ could ever be dreadful.

He imagined a crowd of kids eating biscuits and talking about how wonderful his life must be, and something rather spiteful swelled up within him. There was no way that he wouldn’t disappoint his peers, and a part of him was glad for it. _Let them be_ _disappointed_. He was not some storybook protagonist. It was almost hurtful to think that he wasn’t a real person to them, but a caricature. Apparently even in the wizarding world he wouldn’t get a chance to make his own first impressions.

“Well, I’m not really sure what to say. I didn’t know I was famous, and I wasn’t taught about—about forks or tea or titles.”

Bones either didn’t hear the bite in his words, or chose to ignore it. “Merlin, this must be a bit overwhelming,” she breathed out. “Not to be rude, Harry, but some of this stuff… you’re expected to know it. You could seriously mis-step without meaning to, and make a mortal enemy out of some Lord or Lady to be.”

Some of Harry’s anger deflated. It sounded like Bones was genuinely worried for him, which was equally odd, nice and unwelcome. He recalled the man from Gringotts sneering that he didn’t even have his heir ring, and glanced down at his right ring finger where the signet now rested.

“That too,” she said, following his gaze. “You’re supposed to understand all of your duties before putting that on, you know. Aunt Amelia made me train for _years_ to even be considered, and I only just got it this summer.” She wiggled her finger, bringing attention to an intricate brass ring.

Well, _shit._

The goblins didn’t mention that, but then what did they care about wizarding customs?

After a moment of helpless eye contact, Bones straightened. “Well then, put your book away. I’ll just have to teach you.”

“ _Pardon?_ ”

She pouted suddenly, brown eyes growing wide and sad. “Unless you don’t _want_ my help?”

“No,” Harry said quickly, though he knew the start of crocodile tears when he saw them. “I would appreciate it.”

Sure enough, the girl beamed. “Great! Let’s start with greetings, then. Here’s what you should’ve said…”

Harry was used to fading from sight. He had a month of recent practice skirting the edge of peoples notice. When he recognized the rude boy from the robes shop, Harry ducked behind Bones.

“Now would be a good time to practice,” she whispered to him.

“Now would be a good time to stuff it,” he said. She snickered quietly, and let him hide.

Just before they entered the Great Hall, side by side in two separate lines, Bones leaned over and whispered, “We’ll stay friends, right?” 

Caught out, Harry floundered for a moment. _Were_ they friends? So quickly? After a moment, he nodded. She had been kind to him when she hadn’t needed to be, and he’d enjoyed the train ride, however much it made him feel like he was missing far more than parents. This was his _culture,_ and he was absolutely clueless about it. “Sure… Susan.” 

Susan beamed at him. McGonagall cleared her throat, and they fell quiet. The double doors opened.

The Great Hall was amazing. The sky showing through the ceiling, the floating candles, the wide, long tables with plates in front of every seat…

A three-legged stool and old hat were set on the staircase leading to what seemed to be the Professor’s table. The hat ripped open and proceeded to sing.

 _I love magic_ , Harry thought, which was really becoming something of a mantra for him. 

Susan was sorted into Hufflepuff. After her words of assurance that he would do well in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, Harry doubted he would be joining her there. 

It seemed both an age and a minute before it was his turn. The entire school was staring and Harry pretended not to notice, or rather not to care.

When the hat suggested Slytherin, there was no prejudice in Harry’s head. He rather liked the color green, and even if the blonde boy sorted there had been a bit of a git, he hadn’t been on par with Dudley. 

So when the hat told him that he would do well there, Harry had no reason to doubt it. Sure, he’d heard some negative remarks around Diagon Alley, but he’d heard negativity spewed about _all_ Houses by now. 

So he thought to the Sorting Hat, ‘If that’s what’s best,’ and the Hat shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”

There were books in the Slytherin Common Room. An entire wall was lined with shelves, and while some housed objects, each of which seemed more eclectic than the last, the rest contained knowledge. It was one of the things mentioned in the Prefect’s speech. The books were free to be viewed by any year, so long as they never left the Common Room or dorms. 

Dorms which the First Years were sent to in short order, as it was late, already nearing eleven. Harry followed the group with half-lidded eyes, full and exhausted.

The dorms were two to a room. Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott were assigned to dorm 4A, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle to 4B, which left Harry and Blaise Zabini in 4C. They would remain in the same room until they entered Fifth Year, when they would be given private rooms. 

The ‘good night’ from Zabini was very cool, Harry noted. He had done his best to remember everything Susan said on the train and act ‘properly,’ but the Slytherin’s seemed to have a predisposition towards disliking him. It was nothing _new,_ but it was frustrating. 

His frustration did not fade when Harry climbed into bed and drew the curtains. Harry had known that he would be sharing a dorm room, but it hadn’t occurred to him just how _awful_ it might be. He had grown used to solitude, secure in his cupboard or Gringotts impenetrable vault. Being stuck in a room with a stranger had the back of his neck constantly prickling in awareness, as though he were being watched. Harry couldn't help but think how _easy_ it would be to harm him in his sleep. 

Harry had felt unsafe many times in his life, but never so achingly _vulnerable._ He tossed and turned for a long while before succumbing to sleep. Even then he woke frequently, overly aware of the steady breathing he could hear beyond his own. After what felt like a long stretch he cast a quick _Tempus—_

04:21

September 2nd, 1991

—and headed downstairs. 

The Common Room was abandoned. Harry sighed in relief, not wishing to be caught in his bedclothes. They weren’t hand-me-downs, not anymore, but, as Susan had explained, purebloods were all about propriety. Wandering around outside of his robes seemed like something that might have them worked up. 

For a while he just sat, curled in a chair by the fire he had spelled to life, pondering the previous evening. Dinner had been relatively calm, despite the staring and pointed comments. Nobody had singled him out, not _really_ , though the glaring eyes of his Head of House had certainly been noted. 

Harry didn't bother lingering over useless thoughts of whether he would fit in. He grabbed _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes,_ a rather ancient looking book with small text, and was quickly absorbed in deciphering the Old English. The first spell he tried, “ _Flugur,”_ sent a bolt of lightning from his wand. The wood in the fireplace blackened, the fire crackling noisily.

 _Amazing_ , thought Harry, a tingle shooting from his wand up through his arm. For a moment he was giddy, as he always was upon proving himself capable of _magic,_ but soon the smile dropped at the thought that this spell was considered forgotten. It was sad that any magic could be. 

He idly touched the bridge of his nose, as though to push up glasses that were no longer there.

 _Very sad._ Without a blood ritual, Harry wouldn’t be able to see clearly. But if anybody figured out what he had done, he could—assumedly—go to jail. The ritual had been made illegal, for all that Harry couldn’t understand _why_. Everything in the book had seemed utterly benign, and yet… 

The word ‘magic’ used to be forbidden to Harry. He found himself unspeakably annoyed by the thought that parts of magic itself could be categorized as such.

Perhaps it was just spells that were found to be insignificant or ineffective. After all, what was the real use of lightning? But of course, Harry knew the answer to that—had studied it, because of his fascination with the scar that rested on his brow. Lightning produced ozone, a vital gas to the atmosphere, and created natural fertilizer for plants to absorb through their roots. It also made utterly unique glass when it struck and melted sand. So really, there was no reason for this spell to have ever been forgotten. No reason except people not realizing its benefits.

Harry feels a hunger within himself, one that’s been yawning since the moment he discovered that he was well and truly magical. He wanted to know _everything_. Old, new, forbidden, forgotten—it was all worth learning. And if there were truly horrendous things, if there were spells for hurting animals and killing people, then he would still learn them. Not to _use_ , no, but to make sure they were never completely forgotten.

(Forgotten like he had been, trapped under the stairs in a cupboard, left alone for days on end.) 

Perhaps this was his ambition. What landed him in Slytherin house to begin with. Harry wanted to know magic, to _learn it._ All of it. 

He also wanted to figure out why some of it would be hidden away and banned. His eyes flitted over to the far side of the room as one of the Giant Squids inky tentacles curled into sight. He could see every detail of it—every pucker and groove, every hint of light and shadow.

One hand reached up to settle over his right eye. The left used to be worse, but everything was astonishingly _clear._ _How,_ he wondered, _could something like this ever be considered bad?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a load of progress here, but we get to see Harry marveling over magic. Sensing a theme, anybody?
> 
> (Yep, he really loves being able to see. But for my glasses-wearing brethren, imagine walking around without those lenses perched on your nose. If your vision is as shit as mine, and as I've made Harry's, it isn't a pleasant thought!)
> 
> Thanks for all the comments! If you have time, please leave some more on your way out. :)


	4. Socialization for the inept would be a helpful class, far better than potions

Harry faced his first day at Hogwarts with perhaps two hours of sleep under his belt. After he finished washing up and dressing he peered at his reflection critically. The bags under his eyes were especially noticeable when he didn’t have glasses to hide behind. 

Fortunately he still had the book on glamors from trying to conceal his scar, which he flipped through until he found a spell to hide signs of sleeplessness. The whites of his eyes stopped looking bloodshot—though Harry half-thought that was from reading such tiny text earlier that morning—and the purple shadows vanished completely. It was a bit odd, taking the time to make himself presentable. He never would have done such a thing at the Dursleys, but if appearances were important in Slytherin it followed that _appearance_ was as well. 

At breakfast Snape swept down the Slytherin table, handing out schedules and curtly welcoming each First Year. When he reached Harry he didn’t pause, hardly met his eyes, and certainly did not welcome him before moving on. The other First Years noticed, of course; several of the girls sneered, Malfoy smirked a bit, and Zabini’s eyes sharpened. He’d been quiet all morning, observing everything, his dark eyes following Harry more stringently than the rest of their housemates. It left him in a state of paranoia, not unlike what had prevented him from sleeping the night before. In his experience being watched so intently had never led to anything good.

On top of his roommates apparent fascination, there were throngs of students whispering in the hallways and not-so-subtly pointing at him. 

“Do you see him?”

“The little one in the back?”

“Yeah, with the long hair!”

“Do you see his scar?” 

Harry scowled, chin tucked down, and walked quickly. Gemma Farley, the Slytherin prefect escorting the First Years so they wouldn’t get lost, sneered at Harry as though the unwanted attention was his fault. 

“Hard to be famous,” one of the girls, Daphne Greengrass, bit out. He ignored her; ignored them all, really.

It seemed like his two most prominent desires were competing with each other. His need to learn magic, and his need to be _alone._

Transfiguration was their first class of the term. McGonagall seemed nice enough, if strict, but her eyes tightened every time Harry met them. They hadn’t done so before the Sorting. Harry wondered if it was to do with his placement in Slytherin, or if she just hadn’t recognized him. 

Regardless, she still awarded three points when Harry managed to turn his matchstick into a needle. 

Glancing around the classroom, Harry couldn’t help but wonder how he was the first to finish. Perhaps the other children didn’t have the advantages he assumed? Transfiguration seemed to be strongly technical and based in science. Harry knew from Susan that most children raised in the magical world didn’t attend primary school, and were taught solely by tutors. He would have been lost during parts of McGonagall's lecture if he hadn’t had an exam on the periodic table last term at Whinging Primary. But then, shouldn’t other muggle-raised students be doing just as well? Schooling was standardized, which meant they would have had Science class as well. 

Perhaps his true advantage was that Harry had grown used to what it felt like when he cast a spell. He had sensed his magics confusion on his initial attempt, so he spent some time studying the board, where McGonagall had broken the transformation of wood to metal into atomic conversion. Once Harry focused on the thought of changing the woods molecular makeup, his magic had transfigured the matchstick fluidly. 

It was an interesting thing to note: his magic was only as smart as he was. If he didn't understand what to do, neither did it. _Intent mattered._

When McGonagall finished helping Nott, Harry asked her if the transfiguration was permanent, or if the needle would revert. She appeared surprised. Would he be in trouble for asking about something when others might need her help—? 

“An apt question, Mr. Potter. Transfiguration is permanent. There is a reason we first learned the science behind turning wood to metal. When you cast your spell you did not temporarily change its state of being, but forever altered it. This is why reverting a transfigured object back to its original state is known as untransfiguration, and considered a separate branch of the subject entirely.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He was glad he had asked, despite the bit of trepidation that rose at being the sole focus of her attention. He could feel Zabini’s eyes boring into his neck, though every time he glanced back the boy was seemingly focused on his matchstick. “Thank you, Professor.”

There was the faintest of curls at her lip when she nodded and moved on to help Finnegan. 

Harry eyed his needle thoughtfully as he re-tucked his hair behind an ear. It was about the size of a simple hairpin. As the morning had made evident, hiding his scar wasn't about to make the whispers stop, and it falling into his eye was becoming something of an annoyance.

He flipped through the Transfiguration textbook, searching for a spell to alter the needles shape without changing its composition. 

Harry touched his hairpin with a faint smile, pleased that McGonagall had let him keep it after awarding Slytherin five more points. It was little bigger than the matchstick had been, thin and flat, only sticking out due to its silver coloring against his dark hair. 

Malfoy was walking with him to the greenhouses, though Harry rather thought he would act as though it were a coincidence if Harry pointed it out. Still, after a moment of strained silence, Harry swallowed and asked, “Are you looking forward to Herbology?”

Draco looked at him from the corner of his eye, expression a bit pinched, before his chin tilted up (pompously, if you asked Harry) and he said, “Of course. Malfoy’s may not _garden_ , but there are many rare plants on the grounds at home. I’ve learned a bit, of course, to stay safe and keep the Abraxan from being devoured.”

Harry felt his stomach drop a bit. _Devoured?_ That sounded more dangerous than he expected, but then his experience was down to the Dursley’s muggle garden. He regretted not reading up on Herbology.

“That’s nice,” he said slowly. “What are Abraxan?”

For a moment Malfoy nearly preened, though he quickly stopped in favor of eying Harry rather suspiciously. “Giant, winged horse. _Obviously._ ”

Harry felt himself color. He was _trying_ to be polite to the other boy, despite his general state of poor manners. But being mocked for not knowing something was a rather sore spot. Harry wondered if Malfoy had been one of the children that whispered about how amazing his life must have been as he learned about the wizarding world. Now he threw the advantage of growing up within it in Harry’s face, scorn poorly hidden at Harry’s _stupid_ question. 

“Pardon me for being _oblivious_ ,” Harry snapped back, and walked a bit quicker. His intent was obvious; Malfoy fell back, eyes watching him go with some confusion. Deftly, almost as though he had been waiting for them to separate, Zabini fell into step with him. They spent the remainder of the walk in silence. 

It turned out that Daphne was the niece of Lord Edgar Greengrass, the man Harry had confronted in Gringotts mere days ago. She was a pretty enough girl, with straight blonde hair and pale blue eyes, but the sneer that twisted her face every time she caught sight of him was rather ugly. She had spent their first day whispering in the other Slytherin’s ears about his ‘stance’ on Goblins. 

Dinner that evening was a tense affair. The First Years were either glaring at him, sharing meaningful glances, or ignoring the situation entirely. It was Nott who sat forward and demanded to know whether Harry was a blood traitor. 

“I respect that the wizarding world has its own traditions and look forward to learning them, if that’s what you’re asking.” Harry returned coldly, unimpressed by his rudeness. “However I believe that nobody has the right to demean or speak down to others. I can’t imagine how an adult, nevertheless a Lord, is allowed to throw a public fit in any polite society.”

Daphne sneered, knife cutting savagely through her chicken, as though she were imagining it was his chest. “Uncle Edgar was Head Boy and King of Slytherin in his Seventh Year.”

“Slytherin?” Harry displayed his surprise openly. “There was nothing particularly _subtle_ about the way that he was raving at a teller just attempting to complete her duties. I do hope standards were lower then, or the years have dulled his wit.”

Needless to say, Harry’s refusal to apologize or even show regret didn’t help temper the situation.

His stance spread like wildfire, and left most of Slytherin sneering at him away from prodding eyes. Outside of the Common Room Slytherin House seemed pleased to have ‘gotten’ Harry Potter. Inside was another story entirely. 

Double Potions started with a roll call. It started with Snape calling him a celebrity. Harry was used to mockery, just not for surviving something his parents had perished to. 

There was a speech, then, soft-spoken yet enticing. Harry was enraptured by the idea that they would not be using wands in this class, that they would create magic _without_ , like he had during the ritual. Snape went on about the beauty of Potions, crafting illusions of grandeur in little more than a whisper. Several of the students were leaning forward— _Harry_ was nearly leaning forward—until he said, "If you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." 

The mood was effectively shattered. Harry suppressed a frown, though perhaps not well enough, for Snape called on him immediately. 

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry did not know. 

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything.”

Harry’s hands tightened to fists under his desk. Fame was _nothing._ Harry would give anything to have had parents, people who might have actually cared for him, over the inability to go anywhere or do anything without the judgement of strangers.

The cutting comments continued when Harry did not know the answer to Snape’s next question. The third—the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane—he got right, but only due to an extracurricular book he had picked up. He didn’t recall anything about the plant, bezoars, or ‘The Draught of the Living Dead’ in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , but of course he hadn't memorized the thing.

His correct answer almost seemed to be a mistake as Snape’s black eyes darkened further. Petunia got the same look when Harry’s mouth went off without his permission. It was usually followed by an ear-ringing slap or days locked in his cupboard. Harry tensed in anticipation, but Snape only turned his attention to the Gryffindor side of the room.

“Longbottom,” he called. A boy whimpered softly. Several of the Slytherin’s snickered, as did a red-head from Gryffindor, but Harry found no humor in his fear. “Why do we use pewter cauldrons for First Year potions?”

“I-I-I’m not s-sure, P-Professor,” he stuttered. His cheeks were bright red, eyes firmly on the desk in front of him. Malfoy jeered—Snape shot him a quelling look, but took no points.

As he had with Harry, Snape asked Longbottom question after question. By the second he was already shaking, successfully humiliated. The girl in front of him hardly helped, hand waving in the air for attention. 

Harry had been demeaned for as long as he could remember. In a way he was used to it. But seeing a Professor snap at a boy, an eleven-year-old child who looked close to tears, got his blood boiling. Longbottom was _terrified_ , and for what? Not knowing the correct answers? Weren’t classes, weren’t _Professors_ , supposed to be the ones to teach them?

A beaker shattered on the shelf directly behind Snape, saving Longbottom from whatever remark he held on his acidic tongue. Harry’s eyes widened. That had been— _him._ He could feel his magic shake and spit in rage. Two vials broke, spilling liquid that Snape hastily banished, and Harry held his breath, trying to calm down. 

He hadn’t known his magic could _do that_. It hadn’t acted out noticeably since the glass vanished at the zoo. Then again, Harry hadn’t had to bottle up his anger before, not like this. Last time he had felt this way he stood up to the perpetrator. Now he sat still, his surprise as evident as any other students. 

"Who was that?" Snape snarled. His black eyes darted around, cataloging everything, but nobody had their wands out. “Admit it now or detention will be the least of your worries.”

 _More threats._ The silence held. Harry kept gritted teeth hidden behind closed lips and said nothing.

After nearly three minutes of tense quiet Snape flicked his wand. Chalk screeched against the blackboard. “Set up your cauldrons,” Snape hissed.

 _Well_ , thought Harry, a bit amazed and feeling as though he’d just escaped death, _it’d worked._ Snape was no longer making Longbottom nearly cry. 

Still, irritation bubbled in Harry’s gut. It wasn’t _enough_. 

Zabini, his seating partner, grabbed the ingredients they needed while Harry set the cauldron to boil. For all his staring the other boy didn’t speak, not until near the end of class, when he finally snapped, “Stop glaring, Potter. Don’t get us marked down.”

Longbottom’s cauldron had just drenched him and collapsed, leaving him covered in angry red boils. Instead of asking if he were alright or doing some magic to reverse it, Snape had yelled at the boy before sending him off to the Hospital Wing with another First Year. Then he rounded on the two boys beside where Longbottom had sat and yelled at them for not stopping Longbottom from adding an ingredient too early—so essentially, for not _doing Snape's job for him_. 

Harry turned his attention back to the ingredients he was meant to chop, jaw clenching. Snape was positively _vile_. 

Harry kept his head down for the rest of the lesson, not to follow Zabini’s advice but to keep his magic from lashing out again. It seemed a much more dangerous notion in a room full of toxic chemicals. The spot under Neville’s desk had holes in the floor where the potion had melted through before being banished.

Their potion ended up the correct shade and was bottled. Harry set it in line with the others on Snape’s desk, keeping his eyes averted from the Professor lest he do something rash.

Just as he turned, there was the sound of shattering. “Now, Mr. Potter, you should really be more careful,” the man sneered. “It’ll be zero points today, then. I expect Zabini would appreciate your apologies.”

Harry quaked in place. He wanted to turn. He wanted to _scream_ , to rage, to throw a tantrum like Dudley did when he didn’t get his way.

It was the final thought that held him in place. He wasn’t his cousin. He wasn’t thoughtless or spoiled or rash. He had always gotten his revenge carefully, with the Dursely’s none the wiser, and he would continue doing so. Until he knew whether Snape was _allowed_ to be so terrible, he would hold his tongue. Daphne had taught him that consequences could be more far reaching than expected. He wasn’t about to forget such a fresh lesson. 

Harry strode back to his desk, packing away his bag quickly. “It seems we’ve gotten no marks,” he informed Zabini. Whatever emotion the boy found on his face had him flinching, just a bit. Harry wondered if his rage was that obvious, that ugly. He found that he didn’t care.

“Harry?” 

He turned, surprised, to find Susan leaning against the wall. She had been waiting on him outside of their first Defense lesson—the first class they’d shared. He had been half-tempted to sit with her on the other side of the room, but she’d been laughing with a classmate and he hadn’t wanted to intrude.

“Hey,” he said, smiling a bit. He hadn’t been sure if the permission to use her first name still stood, not when the understanding of exactly _how much_ Slytherin was disliked had hit, but judging by her use of his given name all was well. “Think we could pick up those lessons?”

The worry melted from her eyes, and she stepped forward with a small grin, bumping their shoulders together. “Sure,” she said. “Better get you educated fast, before you’re devoured.”

“I think they’re more likely to suffocate me via constriction,” said Harry. Susan stared at him for a moment before bursting out into laughter. Harry flushed. 

“Because they’re snakes?” she asked through helpless giggles. 

“I thought that was implied,” he returned, a bit peevishly. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she snorted. “Merlin. I’ll certainly have to keep you around, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “I would be honored for your continued company, heir Bones.”

Her grin turned approving. “A bit less sass, if you please,” she directed, but took his offered arm and dragged him towards the library. Neither noticed the dark eyes that followed their path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting some concern about Harry's little eyesight ritual, so here's the skinny: There _was_ , in fact, another way for Harry to have clear vision. Thing is, once Harry read about the ritual he didn't even _try_ to find alternatives. He decided on his course of action and didn't falter, didn't even consider there would be an easier and possibly pain-free method. He could've gone to a muggle Optometrist, or asked an adult in Diagon how witches and wizards fix their eyesight, but he _didn't_. Me having him use the ritual doesn't reflect anything about availability. 
> 
> As for it lasting only a year, I don't believe the cost of learning, blood, and a Spark of magic is enough for lifelong results. Magic isn't perfect or simple. It isn't the solution to everything wrong in the world. There's room for change and improvement in everything.
> 
> I don't have much to say about Snape. He is a bully that shouldn't be allowed to work around children and is incompetent as a teacher, mostly due to the fact that he never actually _teaches anything_. I won't make him a flat character because he is a complex man, but personally I find his behavior repulsive and so would this version of Harry. 
> 
> Thank you for the validating comments. More, please! ;)


End file.
